


infinity or some brighter place

by dizzydancing



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retirement, pre-retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:25:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzydancing/pseuds/dizzydancing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Cristiano kicks the ball into the top right corner of the goal, and Leo’s heart stops. He can’t celebrate, not really, because he’s wearing the wrong colors and playing in the wrong stadium. It’s all wrong, all treacherous, and what was he even thinking —</em>
</p><p><em>Without warning, Cristiano's body slams into his, and he can’t think, can only feel. He feels the flush of Cristiano’s skin against his: the sweat making Cristiano’s face glisten, the heat making it hard for Leo to breathe, the warmth radiating off his smile. Cristiano pulls back, enough for Leo to catch his breath, and grins. With stars in his eyes, he yells, “Amazing, isn’t it?”</em><br/> <br/>Or: Leo and Cris play at PSG together before retiring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	infinity or some brighter place

There’s something unfamiliar gliding through Leo’s veins. If he were anyone else, he would recognize the quiver in his bones and the heaviness in his heart; he would label the feeling as fear.

He’s not allowed to be _just anyone_ though, so he pushes everything that hurts him, everything that overwhelms his senses and clouds his vision — sky blue and white, blaugrana, Camp Nou — down, down, down until nothing can hurt him.

Paris is cold despite the humidity and foreign despite the warm hands that greet him, marking him and proclaiming to be his friends. (“Anything Mr. Messi, anything at all. Just let us know. We’re here to help you settle in.”)

A tight smile. A brush of skin against skin. A wisp of hot air.

Then, going, going, _gone._

 

\---

 

The house — not _his_ house, _the_ house — is empty with the exception of the pile of boxes stacked against one wall.

Leo doesn’t quite feel masochistic enough to start unpacking everything he needs: kitchen utensils, clothes, or essentials he’s barely spared a thought for since landing in France. He might stumble upon something he definitely doesn’t need to see: gifts from teammates, photos, or memories he’s wasted his thoughts on. He could call Antonella, but she wouldn’t pick up. The thought makes his throat constrict.

Breathing in foreign air, he spends a few minutes just staring at the ceiling before his vision starts becoming hazy. Without even thinking, he reaches — hands acting on their own accord — for the large bag on top of one of the boxes.

The drive to the training grounds shouldn’t take too long.

 

\---

 

When he finally arrives to the pitch, he’s surprised to see someone already there, but then he notices gelled hair, tan skin, and the unmistakable figure of Cristiano Ronaldo. The sight of a somewhat familiar face is simultaneously jarring and comforting. He feels like they’ve known each for eternity or never met at all.

Leo sets down his stuff on the bench. He’s searching for his boots when a voice interrupts him.

“Sorry, but no fans allowed. I don’t have time for photos. ” Twisting around, Leo sees Cristiano with a ball tucked under his arm, a small smirk dancing on his lips.

At a loss for words, Leo laces his boots, puts his hands up in mock surrender, and says the first thing Neymar ever told him. “No photos. All I wanted is for you to sign my shoes.”

The smirk immediately falls from Cristiano’s face, like it was plastered on there to begin with. Instead, Cristiano smiles softly, lips tugging upward to reveal bright teeth. Leo decides he prefers that smile — that real, genuine smile — much more.

“I already set up some cones,” Cristiano informs him, and then he’s off, running with the ball until there’s nothing more than man and ball and grass, nothing more than all the possibilities laid out before him, nothing more than magic. Pure, simple, painful, beautiful football. Magic.

A football trails into Leo's line of vision and hits his left boot.

Leo looks up and sees Cristiano with a challenging look in his eyes. “Hurry up and pass it back,” the Portuguese says. “I hate giving away the ball.”

Just for good measure, Leo kicks the ball at Cristiano’s head. For the next few hours or maybe eons, they scramble for the weight of the ball against their feet, for the thrill of the fight, for the beauty of the chase. For love and passion. Leo runs and runs, weaving in and out with Cristiano and heaven following his movements, until his lungs burn.

It feels like breathing.

 

\---

 

He steps into the locker room on the first day of training with the intention of minding his own business, dressing quickly, and heading to the pitch as quickly as humanly possible.

When the door creaks open though, a dozen eyes immediately snap in his direction. He’s immediately bombarded by a few autograph requests, and he does his best to comply and ignore the curious gazes.

It’s obvious when Cristiano steps into the locker room because half the players fall silent and turn their heads.

“Everyone, this is Leo. He’s decent at football,” Cristiano says seriously. He pauses. “Not as good as me though. Obviously.” Some of the younger footballers glance at each other nervously, like they expect Leo to pull out a sword and stab Cristiano or something.

“Obviously,” Leo repeats flatly. He tries not to roll his eyes. He fails. Cristiano just grins like Leo has passed the first test.

Later, after hastily trying to memorize the names of the players (“Call me Marco, not Veratti.” “Thiago, like your son. Great name choice by the way. Let me know if you need anything.”) and feeling guilty about not doing research, Leo finally makes his way to his locker.

The “10: Lionel Messi” sticks out like it isn’t meant to be there, like he isn’t meant to be here, amongst not just red and blue but red, blue, and white. Something cold and foreign chips away at his heart; something cold and familiar wraps itself around his lungs and squeezes. For a moment, he lets himself crumble, lets the wall support the weight of his past and uncertainty of the future.

He closes his eyes.

Then, he opens them again. Back to work.

 

\---

 

Everything is easier on the pitch. Always.

On the pitch, he knows who he is. He knows where he is supposed to be, who to receive the ball from, who to pass it to. He acts on instinct, on the pull of his legs and the beat of his heart.

Cristiano is intense during practice. He walks around confidently, with a clench in his jaw and stiffness in his shoulders. The way he moves around is all grace and dignity; it’s hard to miss his presence. On the pitch though, he’s someone else entirely, just like Leo. He seems to glide through the grass and brush pass players. All drive and instinct; no thought.

Leo acts on the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He’s not sure what happens. One minute, he’s running. At some point, he’s floating. Then, he feels his skin prickle, and without looking up, he just _knows_ where to pass. The ball leaves Leo’s foot on its own and sails toward Cristiano, who heads it into the back of the net.

Magic.

All that, without a single word. They nod at each other, and off they go again.

“Come on Messi,” Cristiano yells. By the third or forth time, Leo starts to recognize Cristiano’s demands as compliments. “I know it’s hard, but keep up with me!”

The football knocks the back of Cristiano’s head, and he starts begging for a red card.

Leo’s heart could burst at the familiarity.

 

\---

 

His arms are shaking.

It’s his first match, except not really because Leo’s played hundreds and hundreds of matches, but this — this is his first match for PSG. This is first match in an uncomfortable kit with treacherous colors.

But football — football could never be treacherous. Football could never be anything but beautiful to him. He’s looking out at the stadium, and nothing — except for everything — is familiar. The tremor of the restless crowd, the scent of the fresh-cut grass, the screech of the referee’s whistle. Everything is familiar.

Then, the ball is suddenly at Leo’s feet, and it’s like the first day of training. He runs and out of the corner of his eye he sees Cristiano running too and the sight is just enough to push down Leo’s fears just a little longer. Leo laughs then, because how could anyone ever think that mortals are capable of beating Gods?

He nutmegs the poor defender guarding him and sends the ball towards Cristiano. As soon as the ball leaves his feet, Leo knows it’ll be a goal.

Cristiano kicks the ball into the top right corner of the goal, and Leo’s heart stops. He can’t celebrate, not really, because he’s wearing the wrong colors and playing in the wrong stadium. It’s all wrong, all treacherous, and what was he even thinking —

Suddenly, Cristiano’s body slams into his, and he can’t think, can only _feel_. He feels the flush of Cristiano’s skin against his: the sweat making Cristiano’s face glisten, the heat making it hard for Leo to breathe, the warmth radiating off his smile. Cristiano pulls back, enough for Leo to catch his breath, and grins. With stars in his eyes, he yells, “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Leo doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know if Cristiano is referring to himself or the fans or football or Leo or them. But then, he replies, “Amazing,” so maybe he does know.

 

\---

 

He knows he shouldn’t want something too much. A long time ago, he learned that wanting something enough doesn’t mean he’ll earn it.

Gold trophies, bronze statues, the love of a country — Leo knows how it feels to fall short and stagger every single time. Leo knows, and yet, he still craves.

He craves tan skin and wide smiles. He craves the rapid _thump thump thump_ of Cristiano’s heart pressed against his. He craves something he doesn’t even have a name for. It’s so easy, though, to fall in love with Cristiano when he looks like this: his thighs splayed out, his hungry dark eyes, and his neck stretched out, exposing bare, unmarked golden skin.

“You didn’t have to take your shirt off,” Leo says over the noise of the screaming fans. “It’s just the second match; we haven’t won anything.”

Cristiano just grins back, shamelessly. He presses his forehead against Leo and yells, “Yet. Everything. We’re going to win everything.”

Their other teammates start screaming too, half of them in agreement and half of them only pretending they know what Cristiano says. It’s okay. Leo doesn’t mind. At that very moment, with the strength of thousands of voices surrounding him and the force of Cristiano by his side, he feels holy.

At night though, when his thoughts stray to Antonella and his boys in Barcelona, he feels guilty.

 

\---

 

Sweat covers Leo’s entire body, and he still hasn’t shaken off his exhaustion. Their third match is more a bar brawl than an actual football match. Troyes is a physical club. They knew that, and yet, they were still unprepared. They’re up but just barely. Leo wanders around in the midfield because the forward line can’t seem to receive any balls.

Finally, finally — and it was only a matter of time — Leo manages to get back the ball after a stay pass. His movements may be slower than they used to be, but his senses are still alert, still ready to pick out the path of a long pass that would absolutely destroy the opponents.

He’s racing, flying through the wind, until a leg suddenly sticks out of nowhere. Leo immediately crashes on to the ground, pain searing in his right leg. A sea of dark blue shirts surround him in seconds, prodding at him and imploring him, _are you okay?_ and _I’m going to kill them._ and _Seriously, you good?_ He can hear Cristiano in the background yelling about something.

“I’d be fine if you all gave me some space,” he snaps when he finally can’t take it. There are only a few minutes left of the match, and his teammates are wasting them.

Leo staggers on to his feet, and then he’s running again. The pain in his right leg doesn’t even subside a little, and he clumsily gives away the ball to the defender who fouled him. His heartbeat quickens though because one of the defenders has left his mark and all he has to do is steal the ball away from this lazy defender and send it to Cristiano who Is still waving his hands and —

Cristiano is running in their direction, heading straight towards the defender with the ball. Leo wants to scream at him to go forward, to just _wait_ , but then Cristiano is barreling right into the defender and —

Yellow card. Match over.

 

\---

 

Cristiano is stupid and reckless, and Leo may not be surprised but he’s surprisingly angry.

“I’m not going to apologize for being emotional,” Cristiano stays stoically. “We were up one goal, and all we needed to do was waste some time.”

“You didn’t have to foul him,” Leo repeats. “Could’ve been a red.”

“It wasn’t going to be a red.” Cristiano moves forward. Leo wouldn’t be surprised if he started stomping his feet like a kid.

“Could’ve been,” he emphasizes because he may not know Cristiano that well, but he knows he’s the most stubborn person in the world. And Leo hates confrontation, would rather let football speak for him, but he moves closer because Cristiano is reckless and destructive and passionate and beautiful and stubborn, so stubborn. Leo moves closer until he can see Cristiano’s eyelashes, until he can see the curls that escaped his hair gel, until they’re close enough to kiss.

Instead, he just asks, “Do you think you need to see the physio?” It’s a stupid question. Cristiano is obviously going to say no even if he has ten broken bones. It’s a stupid question, but it’s innocent, easier.

His suspicions are confirmed when Cristiano just shrugs him off, and then, before Leo can reach out, Cristiano is taking a few steps back. Away.

“You’re the one whose leg was almost broken,” Cristiano says harshly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Leo replies because he’s never been the type to pick a fight and maybe also because the thought of Cristiano protecting his teammates, including Leo, makes him feel — Leo doesn’t know, but it makes him feel something dancing on the surface of his lips. Cristiano looks disappointed, and Leo resists the urge to smooth out the crinkle between his furrowed eyebrows.

He silently waits for Cristiano to finish so that he can drive him home. The word “thanks” stays stuck in his throat.

 

\---

 

Leo wonders if he buried himself somewhere amongst the boxes in the living room.

He digs and digs until bruises cover his arms, until he loses track of time and can only think in colors.

It’s 2 am when he finally realizes he doesn’t remember what he was searching for in the first place. Eyelids heavy, he falls asleep on the floor. For the first time since moving to Paris, he doesn’t dream.

 

\---

 

His phone rings incessantly sometimes.

Leo has just pressed ignore for what seems like fifth time in a row when his phone starts abruptly ringing again.

Most of the players ignore it or pretend to at least, but Silva slams his locker door shut in exasperation. He demands, “Do you plan on answering that?”

“No.” Leo hesitates but finally decides to turn off his phone. “It’s my father.”

“Could be your sons,” Cristiano interrupts the conversation. It’s not like him to pry into someone else’s life, so Leo turns around him. His expression is impossible to read. Leo wishes, not for the first time, that the barrier between them forged by the past could break down.

“It’s not,” Leo states. That’s definite.

He doesn’t need to explain himself to anyone. It’s a good thing, too, because he wouldn’t know how to anyway.

 

\---

 

The next day, Cristiano brings his son to training. Leo would question the timing if he weren’t so busy smiling at the sight before his eyes. Leaning down, Cristiano is nodding as Junior whispers something into his ears. He fiddles with his earrings the entire time, and there’s a certain softness in the way he moves and a certain glow in his eyes.

Leo looks at him — Cristiano with lines bracketing his smile and his eyes, with a rare aura of innocence around him — and feels something bubble in his chest.

There are some things in the world that haven’t been tainted yet. (Football is not one of them.)

“He’s bigger than I remember,” Leo says as soon as Junior leaves. Cristiano is still standing there with a far away look in his eyes.

Stirred out of his thoughts, Cristiano jolts at the sound of Leo’s words, and Leo regrets not having a camera to capture the ridiculously startled expression on Cristiano’s face.

“He’s a little man now,” he replies proudly with a hint of something wistful in his voice.

The small laugh that comes out of Leo surprises himself and even Cristiano, judging by the smile on the Portuguese’s face.

“What?” Cristiano asks, smile wavering a little. Leo hates how they still have to act cautious around each other.

“Little man? He’s still a kid,” Leo teases him. “Already afraid you’re going to lose him?”

“He’ll always need me.” He doesn’t say _I’ll always need him_ , but Leo understands because —

“No, I get it.” Leo thinks about Thiago, Mateo, and Ciro. Suddenly, his chest tightens. “They’re going to move on without us.”

The tension in Leo’s chest must somehow leak into his voice because Cristiano tilts his head ever so slightly and twists his lips ever so slightly. A few months ago Leo wouldn’t be able to distinguish between Cristiano’s small quirks, but now, he recognizes Cristiano’s mood shifts the same way he recognizes an errant pass. It’s a strange source of pride for him. Cristiano takes a deep breath and slowly asks, “Are you still talking about your children?”

“I —“ Leo stops there. He still feels the weight of blaugrana and albiceleste, clinging on to the back of his eyelids or burrowing in the back of his chest.  He settles for “You wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, _I_ wouldn’t know?” Cristiano replies, with an edge to his words. He laughs derisively. His eyes narrow, and his lips become a thin line.

Leo shakes his head again, and he digs his shoulder blades into the wall behind again. The tight spot in his chest is still there, and as much as he would like to release it, as much as he wants it to slide up his throat, it controls him. Cristiano has become more than Leo imagined he could ever be, but he’s still _blanco_ , still the face of Leo’s past.

“Not today,” he finally says when the silence becomes unbearable. He repeats, “Not today,” and hopes, prays, Cristiano understands.

Cristiano smiles, and Leo can feel the barrier cracking. He thinks his heart could build a home out of Cristiano’s smiles.


End file.
